


Stasis

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 04:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16297763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Using magic is all fine and well.Until you hit that cutoff point and enter stasis.





	Stasis

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> Spotted a prompt of "Nyx & stasis" and of course had to try my hand at writing something for him again.

It's not that there's too many of them ( _lies_ , there are, bodies all around and weapons everywhere and they're so close he can hear the hum of all their mechanical parts, the hissing chitter from whatever lurks behind those helmets and the glowing eyes, heat of battle leaching away with every scrape of metal over - through - his skin and armour), it's not that he's weak, it's not that they're unprepared.  They trained for this, they knew what they were walking in on, they'd all read the reports and the plans and the stark truth in the numbers marching across Lucian soil, still had the Captain's orders barking over Comms, but...

There's a difference between fighting  _humans_  and this new infantry Niflheim's rolling out across Lucis in waves they're struggling to hold back.  People make mistakes, they feel pain, they bleed, they flinch, cut their legs out from under them and they go down and stop being such a fucking problem, but these... machines?  They just keep swinging their weapons and limbs until they're smashed to bits and even then some of them go out with a  _literal_  bang, and Nyx barely has time to register the  **tick-tick-tick**  from the one at his feet and launch himself into a clumsy warp into Crowe's back to save her from it, her magic a crumbling sputter, before it explodes and sends bodies from both sides flying.

It's not even a battle at this point, just straight up carnage, blood and guts and bits everywhere he looks.  It's chaos and horror and carnage and it's not over yet, there is no end on the horizon, not against foes immune to exhaustion and pain and every status spell they think to lob into enemy ranks.

Fire to melt and fuse the protective plating, restrict their range of movement, lightning to fry the circuitry, the line of sight, the trackers and snipers, and ice to take out their limbs, their weapons, render them fragile, breakable, so someone can run headfirst into the fray of it and deliver that killing blow.  So many shields for his comrades, beacons of light in the chaos of it all, every impact shuddering through his bones and rippling through the segmented protection, such a drain on his magic when he still has to move, still has to block and parry and duck under the axe whistling for his head, dive and roll from another burst of gunfire.  It'd be _kinder_ to be under the foot of an Iron Giant, the brute strength that rivals Titan's and bends a shield inward, closer and closer to the caster's body until it snaps like stressed elastic and they're caught and trampled and left as a smear on the ground.  It'd be _easier_ to deal with their wrathful red cousins, to pit his magic against their flames and warp onto their swords and run helter-skelter to hammer at their heads and shoulders and make enough of a nuisance of himself that they turned to swatting at him like an irritant fly, stomping round and round and away from the Glaives.

But these are no daemons, these are not creatures bound by the laws of nature, and while they fight on as only machines can even Nyx, for all his training, has a limit that can't be crossed without consequence.  He saves Crowe from the blast, yes.  He gets to his feet and warps back into the fray, yes, dancing with death like he has no fear of it.  He wields elements and kukris alike and he cuts a path through to Pelna, and through to Luche, and to Sonitus, ignores the screams of protesting muscles and the pulsing ache at the base of his skull from magic strain.  He keeps fighting, he keeps  _pushing_ , because if he doesn't then who will?

He gives all he has and then some, until all the barriers come down as one, shattering into a thousand pretty shards glimmering in the smoke and he has a moment, a single, solitary moment to glimpse the beauty of such a thing that'll haunt his nightmares to come, before there's a vicious tug on every single thread wound through his body and he's powerless to keep going when it  _physically_  yanks him back a step, rips the air from his lungs in one startled cry when all that raging fury in his veins goes silent and something cleaves within.  It's a sudden hollow ache in his gut, an army of ants biting him all at once, pinpricks up and down his arms and through his ribs and stab-stab-stabbing into his heart and he can't breathe for it, can't think for it, blinks as his vision wavers and staggers a step before he goes down on a knee, world swimming into a wash of murky colour before his eyes.

A buzz in his ears - someone screaming his name - and there's a metal body before him with hand raised and he sees his death in that molten glare, lifts his chin in defiance of it and skims his fingers along his blade to meet it,  _challenge_  it.

His aim rings true and he takes out an eye with his throw even as the magitek's anchor slams into his chest, an avalanche of pain tumbling from that point of contact through to the rest of his body and he thinks he might have howled from it had he any breath left to do so, but then electricity sparks  **white-hot and cruel**  across the claws, burrowing through leather and flesh and bone, and the world goes dark.

* * *

When he wakes two days later it's to a wrecked ribcage held together by enough magic to set his teeth itching, some funky scarring that's raw and so sore to the touch that one curious prod is enough to have him choking on a cut-off cry.  Fuzz in his mouth and brain and his hands shake so badly he can't lift a glass of water to his mouth and scowls something fierce when Libertus helps instead.

"What's wrong with me?" He asks, when just the effort of sitting up steals his strength and has him unspeakably grateful for the pillows supporting his back.

"Stasis," Libertus replies, face bruised and grim still, something like fear in the shadows of his eyes, and Nyx thinks he might be under threat of some throttling if he weren't currently under medical supervision.  "You bled yourself dry, Nyx. You could have  _died_."

"Didn't know that was a thing."

"Yeah, well, you should have.  The King's warned us about it before."

"Worth it, though."  They won, of course.  He wouldn't be alive otherwise.

"Only you would think that, dumbass."


End file.
